


traded fireworks for love

by pixiepuff (colourmecrunchy)



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angels, Demons, Humor, M/M, Wooing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-19
Updated: 2012-10-19
Packaged: 2017-11-16 15:23:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/540929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colourmecrunchy/pseuds/pixiepuff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>because I needed a follow-up scene after their dinner at the Ritz<br/>(and then our lurved-up assholes ran away with non-existent plot and turned this into a pile o'fluff)</p>
<p><em>Right now, they were in his car, and Crowley was having a cute little meltdown slash freak-out on the inside. They weren't eating the pumpkin sauce anymore, you see, and yet he still wondered about the taste of the lips and about that smile and there had to be something in that food, like a gallon of wine or some drugs or maybe the pumpkins went off days ago so it fucked up his rational thinking (well, when he says</em> rational <em>) but Crowley thought Aziraphale's hair looks fantastically soft and golden today, so he actually reached over to fluff it up some more. Luckily he stopped himself just in time and made up some excuse about a spider on the roof above Aziraphale's head.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	traded fireworks for love

**Author's Note:**

> i know each of us sees them a bit differently, but i'm perpetually stuck in my brolin world, so i can only really picture them like this ~ (manip and graphics by me)  
> [](http://s275.photobucket.com/albums/jj306/Moxy_Kitkat/?action=view&current=zmilus.jpg)

So the lunch went well.

 

Or, maybe not _well_. Maybe the best description of that peculiar event

\- that should by all means be just an intake of food they didn't exactly need, but indulged themselves with anyway, because despite being supernatural eternal spirits and all that, they still had taste buds and their taste buds agreed pumpkin ravioli was definitely something that could _not_ be passed on -

was that it was strange. It was strangely _satisfying_ in ways that it shouldn't be, at least not if we talk about other things than food. (Which was exquisite.)

But no, Crowley almost forgot all about the ravioli because that little bastard sitting across from him kept grinning at him as if he had a new set of teeth to show, or as if in some weird, let's-go-at-this-backwards way, he tried to tell Crowley that he had some food between his teeth so he kept showing him _his_ instead. Or, as if Crowley was being extra funny today (which was quite possible, of course, because Crowley was a funny fucker) and Aziraphale just couldn't help himself.

So, yeah. It was odd. And satisfying.

 

Crowley felt slightly unnerved, and off-kilter, and missed his mouth with the spoon more than once, which only made that little shit smile wider. But alright, he'll give him that, if Aziraphale was the one to drive the spoon with pumpkin sauce into his cheek, he'd laugh too.

Except that Aziraphale wasn't exactly laughing. He snorted, sure, and barked out a short delighted laugh, but then he just grinned and grinned again, and much to Crowley's horror (and some twisted delight, but he'd never admit it), Aziraphale picked up his own napkin and leaned across and wiped at Crowley's cheek.

_Well then._

 

If there ever was a time for a _demon_ to blush, this was it. Crowley only wishes he wouldn't do it in a full Ritz, of all places, and in front of an angel, of all people.

 

It didn't help that for the rest of the meal, Aziraphale kept staring at his lips. More than once, Crowley wanted to ask (with a tiny amount of agitation, but he always opted out of it because it wasn't just agitation, no, it was so closely interwoven with amusement and exasperation that showing all that simply could not _do_ ) him if he still has some sauce there, or what.

 

So he decided to retaliate.

He stared back.

 

And then promptly realized (after fifteen minutes or so), that this was a bad, bad idea, because staring at Aziraphale's lips was kinda great, and once Aziraphale realized what was going on, he started blushing a really attractive shade of pink (but you didn't hear it from Crowley, okay) and then Crowley's stupid brain started wondering if the pumpkin sauce tastes the same on Aziraphale's lips as it does on his, and that was just. _Crap_.

 

He knew something was up when he left the waiter a _way_ too generous tip. But Aziraphale seemed pleased about it, so that somehow made it alright.

 

Right now, they were in his car, and Crowley was having a cute little meltdown slash freak-out on the inside. They weren't eating the pumpkin sauce anymore, you see, and yet he _still_ wondered about the taste of the lips and about that smile and there _had_ to be something in that food, like a gallon of wine or some drugs or maybe the pumpkins went off days ago so it fucked up his rational thinking (well, when he says _rational_ ) but Crowley thought Aziraphale's hair looks fantastically soft and golden today, so he actually reached over to fluff it up some more. Luckily he stopped himself just in time and made up some excuse about a spider on the roof above Aziraphale's head. Aziraphale just gave him a funny look, and then smiled again.

 

When Crowley was no longer wondering if this is all a subtle hint that he needs to check his own teeth for leftovers, and replaced the wondering with full-on lip staring, he knew he was screwed. (So screwed, actually, that for a very short but desperate moment, he wished the world _would_ have ended yesterday.)

So he drove by the speed limits, for once. And Aziraphale was probably proud, or something, which was all very nice, but Crowley actually did it because he needed some time to think. Because there should obviously be the right way to do this.

 

Like, right as in _not_ dragging Aziraphale into his flat by his hair and then throwing him on the bed. Or the sofa. Or the carpet on the floor, Crowley wasn't picky.

But this here was an _angel_ , and a disgustingly romantic one at that, so Crowley needs to make some kind of an effort. And the worst thing about it is, that he actually _wants_ to make an effort, which throws him off for the next few blocks and they drive in silence. When he looks at Aziraphale to - check on him, check on his lips, marvel at his hair, take your pick, (the truth is d) _all of the above_ ) Aziraphale is facing straight ahead, looking relaxed, and sporting an atrociously hot little smirk on his face.

 

Without preamble, Crowley stops the car on the pavement and jumps out.

He's already half-way to a shop that's there by pure chance and a little bit of lucky coincidence, when Aziraphale opens his passenger door and sticks his head out, confused.

 

"Crowley? Where are you going?"

 

Crowley turns around and continues to walk backwards, and shrugs a bit embarrassed - how are you supposed to tell someone like Aziraphale that you've decided to take all the necessary steps of _wooing_?

He promises to be right back, and enters the florist.

 

The old lady behind the counter looks like someone who's been alone with plants for too long - much like you'd expect a catlady would look like after living with about sixteen cats for the same amount of years, but that could never happen because cats were awesome in ways plants were not - and beckoned him forward.

 

"What can I get you, young man?"

"Em. Flowers?" Kinda obvious, right?

"What kind?"

"I don't know?"

"What's the occasion?"

"Uh."

 

This is where it got complicated. Crowley figured he couldn't well go and say _There's this guy, but not actually a guy because he's an angel, like literally, and he's been kind of smiling at me like he knows something and like he has any right to, and then he wiped sauce off my face and continued to look at me as if it was me who saved the world yesterday, which it wasn't, not really, because I've had help, lot's of it, including his, and maybe it's because I nearly lost him or I don't even know, but the fact is I like that bastard, I mean angel, alright, he's just kind of really lovely but then he goes and does something daft and it makes me want to hold his hand and the fuck, what kind of flowers you get for someone like that?_

 

He wondered if he looked as helpless as he felt, because that was some serious shit to admit to yourself if you were a self-proclaimed badass, and subconsciously looked out the window at the parked car. Aziraphale rolled the window down and leaned his arm out, drumming something along the outside of the door. The old lady followed his line of sight, and then without further ado - after she squealed something _ungodly_ \- started putting stuff together.

 

The bouquet turned out lovely, although it did remind Crowley a bit of a wedding one. But it was white, and he figured it actually was something Aziraphale might like. He hopes. Or his wooing will be the shortest in existence.

And then something heavy dropped in his stomach because he realized he has no idea what to do _after_ the flowers thing. Movies? Another lunch? The ZOO? The problem was they already did all those things anyway, and then he wondered, starting to sweat a little, if the past six thousand years weren't just one giant date, camouflaged as saving-the-world-while-bickering, and he swallowed audibly. Out of depth, _completely_ , are the words you're looking for here.

 

When he got back to the car, Aziraphale was looking at him expectantly - and though Crowley knows he should be at lest a bit agitated because _hello dumbass_ , I just came out of the florist, what do you think I bought there, a new microwave?, but he realized that _instead_ , the urge to hold hands just kind of intensified, and he screamed at himself, internally of course, to just get a grip already because angels probably hated little sissies. Or - actually no, he had no idea what angels liked because Aziraphale was already a slightly unconventional angel, and.

 

He thrust the bouquet in Aziraphale's lap and started the car.

"There."

 

Aziraphale examined the flowers, and smelled them in what Crowley deemed a very girly way, and then grinned at him something stupid.

"You got me _flowers_?"

"Yeh."

" _Why_?"

 

Crowley looked at him, and wished he hadn't. The grin was dazzling him in a kinda blinding way, which was surely detrimental for his health, and Aziraphale should honestly just stop if he doesn't want to experience a pretty-public desecration of his sacred persona on the back seats.

 

"Shut up," was all he choked out, albeit half-heartedly and without any heat and it couldn't actually conceal coyness if he tried, and took them to Aziraphale's bookshop.

 

**********

 

If Crowley hoped for any kind of The return of the Smarm, or the Smooth or Suave, he was dead wrong. Aziraphale went to get a vase for the flowers and was gone for a curiously long time, and Crowley actually thought of going after him to check if everything's alright, but then he heard some sort of scampering, light stomping feet like you do if you jump on the spot repeatedly, and then decided against it. Maybe it was some weird-ass angelic thing to do, and he wanted no part in it.

Apart from having a part of _him_ in that angel. Or. Okay, the other way around works too, although the mere idea of having _anything_ angelic, be it a thought _or_ a body part inside him made him giggle and then slap his face. Which just proves he's gone slightly mad. Or mad-er, anyway.

He decided taking interest in what your person-of-wooing likes is of the essence here, and since they were in Aziraphale's _bookshop_ , it was quite obvious what needs to be done. So he took off his coat (feeling slightly encouraged and like it's not a pretentious thing to do since Aziraphale obviously loved the flowers - if his endless sniffing of them was anything to go by) and went to stand by a shelf that looked particularly, err, _booky_. And then he waited.

Aziraphale came back (also without his coat and _guh_ did the white henley shirt look nice and stretched deliciously over his arms and chest and _focus_ , Crowley, focus on the books), putting[ the vase](http://www.affinityflowers.co.nz/media/images/products/lilies-white.jpg) down and grinned at him.

 

"You looking at my books?"

"Uh."

 

See, no Smarm or Smooth or Suave, just his thoughts stumbling over one another, but most of them just _stood_ where they were, rooted to _some_ surface, because they all consisted of _what the fuck now_ and _do something_. So he did.

 

And it was rather brilliant until he realized _he_ was actually the taller one.

"Help me get this book down?"

 

He even stretched out his arm for good measure, and bent it in the elbow to self-sabotage himself in a pretty daft way, but Aziraphale came forward anyway. And then he came forward some more.

Until he was right in Crowley's space, his _personal_ space _thankyouverymuch_ , and breathed.

"Which one?"

Crowley swallowed, not breaking their eye contact.

"Er, _that_ one?"

 

Aziraphale, still looking at him, raised his arm and covered Crowley's hand somewhere above their heads but below the books that were, truth be told, the least important thing in the world right now to either of them.

 

"I can't reach either," he croaked.

 

And then Crowley thankfully had _enough_ , because he's a _demon_ , for fuck's sake, and demons are fearless and will not stumble and be stopped when faced with a ~~beautiful~~ angel, and there's a reputation to be maintained here, for his and Hell's and a little bit for Aziraphale's sake too, and god _damn_ it holding hands feels really nice, so he finally  surged forward and kissed him.

Aziraphale squeaked enthusiastically and practically threw himself at him, which meant Crowley was now clenched between a very hard bookcase and a very happy Aziraphale (the hardness of whom was yet to be determined), but look at how much he didn't really care because he finally got to taste those lips which hinted only vaguely of their lunch and a tiny bit of the lilies and a whole lot like yellow sun-rays and _wow_  Crowley really needs to stop thinking before he comes up with even more embarrassing stuff, so he shuts down his brain and kisses his angel some more.

When they stop kissing it's not because they need to come up for air - being a supernatural spirit is kinda awesome because the kissing literally doesn't need to stop for centuries, and Crowley plans to do just that, but Aziraphale suddenly pulls away and turns a delightful shade of crimson.

 

Crowley follows his line of sight and is now facing two gaping old ladies (what _is_ it with old ladies today, seriously) between the shop's door.

"It's, em. _Closed_." Is what Aziraphale croaks, but doesn't move away, so Crowley grins devilishly and very obviously sneaks an arm around his middle.

And adds, dead serious, "Book restoration, see."

 

The grannies look at him as if he were mad and mumble something about _faggots_ and _poor books_ , but then screech in surprise as an invisible force pushes them out of the shop as the door closes and locks behind them, and the old, dusty and heavy curtains draw close.

Crowley stares at Aziraphale.

"I _totally_ approve of what you just did."

 

Aziraphale is silent with busy eyes that indicate he's thinking about something, and then flushes prettily.(Again, you didn't hear it from Crowley.)

 

"I thought, you know."

"What?"

"Since everyone keeps calling me a faggot I really want to be one _properly_ , too."

 

Crowley swallows. Yes, _again_ , even though he doesn't have to.

"Properly?"

 

Aziraphale grins, and oh go- _fuck_ he doesn't look angelic at _all_ right now, and whispers against Crowley's lips,

 

"Yes. _Properly_."

 

And then pushes at Crowley with his whole body. (Crowley can finally determine the hardness aspect, which gives some pretty spectacular conclusions.)

 

The next fifteen or so

- Crowley would like to say more, and it's not the lying part because as a badass smarmy demon he has absolutely no problem with omitting the truth, but he doesn't feel it's something he should be embarrassed about because this was _Aziraphale_ and he'd like to see you fare any better, at least for the first time -

minutes are spent by the bookshelf, pushing at each other, hands clutching-squeezing-teasing-stroking at various body parts, a sweet and delirious press of just the right force and at just the right places in waves and waves of pleasure, that when they both climax, they're left shivering in each other's arms, mouthing weakly at each other's lips.

 

Aziraphale's legs give in and they tumble to the floor, but before Crowley crawls on top of him, he plucks one of the smaller lilies from the bouquet.

 

"We could be doing this for _millennia_ ," he grins, before a hand pulls him down by the very-askew collar and they lock lips again.

 

"Oh, we will," Aziraphale grins back, looking far too angelic suddenly for something so filthy that has just passed between them, and winks.

 

Crowley bites his lips and sticks the lily in Aziraphale's hair above his ear.

 

"What's that for?"

"I've decided it means _this angel is now taken_."


End file.
